tkl-pen
1st Level Orange Feather
- Joined
- Dec 30, 2001
- Messages
- 2,001
- Points
- 0
I started this story but haven't got to the actual tickling part yet - since I'm going on vacation for two weeks plus, I thought I would post the first portion for you - see what you think. Some of these ideas came from a friend in England and I thank him.
THE AMERICAN TICKLING CHRONICLES
PART 002 - SANDY STARR
“Ow,” said Sandy, as she felt the pin prick in the left cheek of her ass,
through the shorts, collapsing on the bed almost immediately, “what the
hell?”
Sandy had answered the door of her hotel room only a few moments ago to
an older gentleman who appeared to be from room service. He was pushing
a wheeled table that was covered with a crisp, clean white tablecloth.
“I didn’t order anything,’ she had said as she saw the table he had brought to
the door.
“No, Miss,” he had responded, “I was told to bring this massage table to the
room so that your crew could get it here when they arrive later tonight.”
“Oh, alright,” she had told him, as she walked ahead of him, stopping by
one of the beds in the room, “you can put it over there on the far side of the
room.”
As he was about to pass by her, she felt the sharp pain of a small pin or
needle in her ass and fell onto the bed as he guided her. The door had
closed automatically behind him as he had entered the room.
Sandy Starr was one of the female wrestlers in the show that was to take
place in the Las Vegas hotel’s showrooms the following day, in the evening.
She had initially been booked to travel with the other lady wrestlers and
their support staff that evening but the airline had called to let her know that
a change had been made and she would have to travel early in the morning.
As a result she had arrived hours earlier and checked into the hotel by noon,
thinking that perhaps she could go shopping that afternoon.
She was one of the new wrestlers in the group, a pretty green-eyed blonde
standing five foot four inches in height and weighing a little over a hundred
and thirty pounds. When she arrived in the room, she had quickly changed
into a comfortable pair of denim shorts and a white flannel shirt that she had
tied in a knot beneath her breasts. She liked to laze around the room like
that comfortably barefoot.
Little did she know that the man who had knocked on her door to deliver a
massage table was not from room service at all. He was, in fact, an
American multibillionaire who lived primarily in Japan and had adopted the
Japanese culture, lifestyle and even a Japanese name. Even so, he
maintained homes in Las Vegas, Los Angeles and Honolulu along with his
homes in Tokyo, Sapporo and Manila. At an early age, Hiroshi, as he liked
to call himself, had developed a passion for tickling and sexual torture
which he pursued on a regular basis.
He had injected Sandy with a powerful and fast-acting paralyzing drug that
immediately rendered all of her voluntary muscles useless. Only the
involuntary muscles controlling her breathing and circulation continued to
work. She couldn’t even lift a finger or open an eyelash as she lay on the
bed fully conscious and completely aware of the things around her. She
was, of course, very much afraid that the stranger was going to rape her
while she lay helpless on the bed. She could have no idea, of course, of his
more sinister intent.
Although Sandy could not see what was going on, she heard the man move
the massage table into the open space on the window side of the room,
where he removed the tablecloth. He then extended the table to its proper
length and snapped two winches into place at one end of the device.
“I know you can hear me,” he said, as he lifted her from the bed and placed
her on the massage table, “and I want to assure you that it is not my intent to
hurt you. I have given you a drug that paralyzes all of your muscles for a
while, probably two to three hours, long enough for me to complete some
preparations. I am going to strap you down on this massage table that I
have modified so that I can have a little fun with you this afternoon and
evening.”
He carefully brought her arms up to the corners of the table above her head,
where he had attached the two winches, and fastened the leather restraints
around her wrists. He then secured straps over her chest beneath her
breasts, around her thighs, knees and ankles.
“You see, I have always had a particular passion for tickling young women
and, more recently, for forced orgasms. I have tried some years ago to
indulge my interests with prostitutes and fetish escorts but found the
experience very bland when the young lady was willing. Since then, I have
developed a preference for the sexual torture of various young women
against their will. Today, as it happens, you, Sandy Starr, will be the guest
of honor. I have seen probably all of your wrestling videos at my home in
Japan and I have gone to great lengths to avail of this opportunity.”
The hapless Sandy, of course, could not move or make a sound. She had no
idea what the man was doing at any particular moment. Fully aware of that,
though, the man was only too pleased to tell her exactly what he was doing
at every moment.
“These straps will hold your arms, legs and torso perfectly,” he explained as
he was strapping her down, “when the drug wears off. Your arms will be
over your head attached to winches, almost like a medieval rack, that I can
use to stretch you. Your legs will be perfectly held in place with your feet
far enough apart that they cannot touch each other.”
Sandy, for her part, couldn’t believe how helpless she was in her present
condition, unable to move a muscle but fully conscious.
“I could quite easily keep you drugged like this,” he told her, as he ran his
finger over the soles of her feet, “but it would simply be no fun for me if
you were unable to struggle and squirm as it is in your present condition.
So, we’ll have to wait until the drug wears off before the real fun can
begin.”
“Having said that, though,” he continued, as he put on a pair of plastic
gloves and opened a bottle of oil, “I have a few preparations to make, as I
said earlier. I will arrange for the hotel computer to show your
accomodation in a completely different room so that your friends will not be
coming her to look for you. I will move your baggage and belongings to
that room as well since, I believe, you will have another girl sharing the
room with you. Then I will arrange for this room to be kept locked and out
of service until tomorrow.”
“Since I don’t want you to be bored while I am doing that,” he told her, “I
am going to apply a very special oil to various parts of your body. This oil
was developed by a friend in a British laboratory for me. It is a combination
of massage oil, slowly activated by body heat, and a very powerful itching
powder. Thus, a short time after I apply it, the oil will come to life and the
itching powder will become activated. If you don’t want me to do this, all
you have to do is tell me.”
“Let me see,” he taunted the helpless girl, as he applied the oil liberally to
the parts of her body he was describing, “perhaps I’ll start with these very
pretty feet of yours, the bottom, the top, between and beneath the toes, all of
the most sensitive areas. Has anyone ever complemented you on these very
pretty feet you have, about size seven and a half I would say.”
“Oh, my,” he said, “I forgot something very important, didn’t I? I should
gag you so that you won’t be able to scream when the drug wears off and
the itching is well underway. These rooms are supposed to be soundproof
but it would be imprudent to rely on that, don’t you agree?”
He placed the thick rubber bit of a bridle gag between her teeth and lifted
her head, carefully moving her long hair out of the way, to buckle the straps
behind her head. He turned the winches slightly to stretch her arms slightly,
still leaving her elbows bent.
“There we are,” he said, “but I still have some of this special oil left. Maybe
I’ll just force my hand inside your bra and apply this oil to your breasts and,
then, I’ll force my hand inside your shorts and apply the oil to your pussy
and your asshole.”
Sandy, although helpless and unable to move, felt his hand inside her bra
and smearing the oil all over her breasts and then inside her shorts where he
applied it liberally to every private part she had, making sure that her pussy,
asshole and buttcrack were thoroughly covered with the oil. She couldn’t
believe that a man could simply reach into her clothes and fondle her private
attributes like that.
“My, my,” he said, “you’re wearing a thong. Were you planning to have sex
today, my dear?”
Sandy could hear the man leaving the room with her baggage and locking
the door. She was alone. She had never been so scared in her life. This
strange older man had completely incapacitated her, strapped her down on a
special table so she wouldn’t be able to move when the drugs wore off, and
plentifully applied a sensual massage oil and itching powder compound to
the most sensitive parts of her body, her breasts, her genitals and her feet.
Now she had no idea when the itching he had promised would begin or even
when he would return. All she could do was lay there helplessly and wait
for the worst.
It took about ten minutes, an agonizing long ten minutes, before she could
feel the itching begin, little by little. It started on her pussy, probably
because that was the warmest part of her to which he had applied the oil.
How she wished she could move, even a little, to relieve the itching on her
genitals, growing worse by the second. Then the itching starting on her
breasts, still warmly cupped in her bra. If only she could arch her back or
do some little thing for even a moment’s respite. Then all hell attacked her
nervous system as the itching powder on her feet came to life. It felt like
hundreds of ants crawling over her breasts, her pussy, her ass and her feet.
Within minutes it had become unbearable. The torture was agony, pure
agony, as her most sensitive parts itched beyond belief and she could move
no part of her body. All she could do was lie there, on the table, and suffer
with the relentless itching.
Two hours later, the paralyzing drug had worn off and she had control of
her muscles again. The tears flowed down her face, now sweaty from the
terrible agony. She turned her head from side to side and tried to dislodge
the bridle gag. She tried pulling on her wrist restraints and then she tried to
reach up to see if she could touch and release the winches holding her arms.
But no matter how hard she tried, it was to no avail. The straps held her
perfectly and she could not move.
She had tried over and over to take her mind off the awful itching on her
skin, trying desperately to focus on something else, anything else. But her
mind always brought her back to the ants in her imagination and, at one
point, even had her imagining spiders crawling all over her body. She even
tried to turn the agony into a game, or a dream, in which she was tied spread
eagle on an anthill in some foreign country. All that did was harden her
nipples and arouse her causing her passion juices to mingle with more of the
itching powder which then saturated the inside as well as the outside of her
pussy. When she wiggled her breasts to relieve the itching, she caused her
breasts to rub against the inside of her bra cups and release more of the
itching powder solution that had not yet been activated.
Another hour passed before she heard the door of the hotel room open. She
hoped beyond hope that it was going to be the chamber maid coming in to
clean the room. With her eyes now open, however, she saw the older man,
the torturer, enter the room.
“Well, well,” he said, “I see that the drug has worn off and you can move
again. Is the itching powder still active or would you like me to apply some
more?”
“No, no,” she screamed into the gag, whose hard rubber bit was probably
already imprinted with the marks of her teeth.
“You know what I have always wanted to try,” he asked, answering his own
question, as he played with the knot tying her shirt together below her
breasts, “was to strip a young woman naked, strap her down helplessly,
apply plenty of itching powder, and then let a few thousand mosquitos loose
in the room. What do you think of that idea?”
“Aaaah, nooooo,” she screamed into the gag.
“You’re probably right,” he conceded, “the hotel management might not
like us bringing so many mosquitos into their establishment. I’ll just make a
note to try that another time.”
THE AMERICAN TICKLING CHRONICLES
PART 002 - SANDY STARR
“Ow,” said Sandy, as she felt the pin prick in the left cheek of her ass,
through the shorts, collapsing on the bed almost immediately, “what the
hell?”
Sandy had answered the door of her hotel room only a few moments ago to
an older gentleman who appeared to be from room service. He was pushing
a wheeled table that was covered with a crisp, clean white tablecloth.
“I didn’t order anything,’ she had said as she saw the table he had brought to
the door.
“No, Miss,” he had responded, “I was told to bring this massage table to the
room so that your crew could get it here when they arrive later tonight.”
“Oh, alright,” she had told him, as she walked ahead of him, stopping by
one of the beds in the room, “you can put it over there on the far side of the
room.”
As he was about to pass by her, she felt the sharp pain of a small pin or
needle in her ass and fell onto the bed as he guided her. The door had
closed automatically behind him as he had entered the room.
Sandy Starr was one of the female wrestlers in the show that was to take
place in the Las Vegas hotel’s showrooms the following day, in the evening.
She had initially been booked to travel with the other lady wrestlers and
their support staff that evening but the airline had called to let her know that
a change had been made and she would have to travel early in the morning.
As a result she had arrived hours earlier and checked into the hotel by noon,
thinking that perhaps she could go shopping that afternoon.
She was one of the new wrestlers in the group, a pretty green-eyed blonde
standing five foot four inches in height and weighing a little over a hundred
and thirty pounds. When she arrived in the room, she had quickly changed
into a comfortable pair of denim shorts and a white flannel shirt that she had
tied in a knot beneath her breasts. She liked to laze around the room like
that comfortably barefoot.
Little did she know that the man who had knocked on her door to deliver a
massage table was not from room service at all. He was, in fact, an
American multibillionaire who lived primarily in Japan and had adopted the
Japanese culture, lifestyle and even a Japanese name. Even so, he
maintained homes in Las Vegas, Los Angeles and Honolulu along with his
homes in Tokyo, Sapporo and Manila. At an early age, Hiroshi, as he liked
to call himself, had developed a passion for tickling and sexual torture
which he pursued on a regular basis.
He had injected Sandy with a powerful and fast-acting paralyzing drug that
immediately rendered all of her voluntary muscles useless. Only the
involuntary muscles controlling her breathing and circulation continued to
work. She couldn’t even lift a finger or open an eyelash as she lay on the
bed fully conscious and completely aware of the things around her. She
was, of course, very much afraid that the stranger was going to rape her
while she lay helpless on the bed. She could have no idea, of course, of his
more sinister intent.
Although Sandy could not see what was going on, she heard the man move
the massage table into the open space on the window side of the room,
where he removed the tablecloth. He then extended the table to its proper
length and snapped two winches into place at one end of the device.
“I know you can hear me,” he said, as he lifted her from the bed and placed
her on the massage table, “and I want to assure you that it is not my intent to
hurt you. I have given you a drug that paralyzes all of your muscles for a
while, probably two to three hours, long enough for me to complete some
preparations. I am going to strap you down on this massage table that I
have modified so that I can have a little fun with you this afternoon and
evening.”
He carefully brought her arms up to the corners of the table above her head,
where he had attached the two winches, and fastened the leather restraints
around her wrists. He then secured straps over her chest beneath her
breasts, around her thighs, knees and ankles.
“You see, I have always had a particular passion for tickling young women
and, more recently, for forced orgasms. I have tried some years ago to
indulge my interests with prostitutes and fetish escorts but found the
experience very bland when the young lady was willing. Since then, I have
developed a preference for the sexual torture of various young women
against their will. Today, as it happens, you, Sandy Starr, will be the guest
of honor. I have seen probably all of your wrestling videos at my home in
Japan and I have gone to great lengths to avail of this opportunity.”
The hapless Sandy, of course, could not move or make a sound. She had no
idea what the man was doing at any particular moment. Fully aware of that,
though, the man was only too pleased to tell her exactly what he was doing
at every moment.
“These straps will hold your arms, legs and torso perfectly,” he explained as
he was strapping her down, “when the drug wears off. Your arms will be
over your head attached to winches, almost like a medieval rack, that I can
use to stretch you. Your legs will be perfectly held in place with your feet
far enough apart that they cannot touch each other.”
Sandy, for her part, couldn’t believe how helpless she was in her present
condition, unable to move a muscle but fully conscious.
“I could quite easily keep you drugged like this,” he told her, as he ran his
finger over the soles of her feet, “but it would simply be no fun for me if
you were unable to struggle and squirm as it is in your present condition.
So, we’ll have to wait until the drug wears off before the real fun can
begin.”
“Having said that, though,” he continued, as he put on a pair of plastic
gloves and opened a bottle of oil, “I have a few preparations to make, as I
said earlier. I will arrange for the hotel computer to show your
accomodation in a completely different room so that your friends will not be
coming her to look for you. I will move your baggage and belongings to
that room as well since, I believe, you will have another girl sharing the
room with you. Then I will arrange for this room to be kept locked and out
of service until tomorrow.”
“Since I don’t want you to be bored while I am doing that,” he told her, “I
am going to apply a very special oil to various parts of your body. This oil
was developed by a friend in a British laboratory for me. It is a combination
of massage oil, slowly activated by body heat, and a very powerful itching
powder. Thus, a short time after I apply it, the oil will come to life and the
itching powder will become activated. If you don’t want me to do this, all
you have to do is tell me.”
“Let me see,” he taunted the helpless girl, as he applied the oil liberally to
the parts of her body he was describing, “perhaps I’ll start with these very
pretty feet of yours, the bottom, the top, between and beneath the toes, all of
the most sensitive areas. Has anyone ever complemented you on these very
pretty feet you have, about size seven and a half I would say.”
“Oh, my,” he said, “I forgot something very important, didn’t I? I should
gag you so that you won’t be able to scream when the drug wears off and
the itching is well underway. These rooms are supposed to be soundproof
but it would be imprudent to rely on that, don’t you agree?”
He placed the thick rubber bit of a bridle gag between her teeth and lifted
her head, carefully moving her long hair out of the way, to buckle the straps
behind her head. He turned the winches slightly to stretch her arms slightly,
still leaving her elbows bent.
“There we are,” he said, “but I still have some of this special oil left. Maybe
I’ll just force my hand inside your bra and apply this oil to your breasts and,
then, I’ll force my hand inside your shorts and apply the oil to your pussy
and your asshole.”
Sandy, although helpless and unable to move, felt his hand inside her bra
and smearing the oil all over her breasts and then inside her shorts where he
applied it liberally to every private part she had, making sure that her pussy,
asshole and buttcrack were thoroughly covered with the oil. She couldn’t
believe that a man could simply reach into her clothes and fondle her private
attributes like that.
“My, my,” he said, “you’re wearing a thong. Were you planning to have sex
today, my dear?”
Sandy could hear the man leaving the room with her baggage and locking
the door. She was alone. She had never been so scared in her life. This
strange older man had completely incapacitated her, strapped her down on a
special table so she wouldn’t be able to move when the drugs wore off, and
plentifully applied a sensual massage oil and itching powder compound to
the most sensitive parts of her body, her breasts, her genitals and her feet.
Now she had no idea when the itching he had promised would begin or even
when he would return. All she could do was lay there helplessly and wait
for the worst.
It took about ten minutes, an agonizing long ten minutes, before she could
feel the itching begin, little by little. It started on her pussy, probably
because that was the warmest part of her to which he had applied the oil.
How she wished she could move, even a little, to relieve the itching on her
genitals, growing worse by the second. Then the itching starting on her
breasts, still warmly cupped in her bra. If only she could arch her back or
do some little thing for even a moment’s respite. Then all hell attacked her
nervous system as the itching powder on her feet came to life. It felt like
hundreds of ants crawling over her breasts, her pussy, her ass and her feet.
Within minutes it had become unbearable. The torture was agony, pure
agony, as her most sensitive parts itched beyond belief and she could move
no part of her body. All she could do was lie there, on the table, and suffer
with the relentless itching.
Two hours later, the paralyzing drug had worn off and she had control of
her muscles again. The tears flowed down her face, now sweaty from the
terrible agony. She turned her head from side to side and tried to dislodge
the bridle gag. She tried pulling on her wrist restraints and then she tried to
reach up to see if she could touch and release the winches holding her arms.
But no matter how hard she tried, it was to no avail. The straps held her
perfectly and she could not move.
She had tried over and over to take her mind off the awful itching on her
skin, trying desperately to focus on something else, anything else. But her
mind always brought her back to the ants in her imagination and, at one
point, even had her imagining spiders crawling all over her body. She even
tried to turn the agony into a game, or a dream, in which she was tied spread
eagle on an anthill in some foreign country. All that did was harden her
nipples and arouse her causing her passion juices to mingle with more of the
itching powder which then saturated the inside as well as the outside of her
pussy. When she wiggled her breasts to relieve the itching, she caused her
breasts to rub against the inside of her bra cups and release more of the
itching powder solution that had not yet been activated.
Another hour passed before she heard the door of the hotel room open. She
hoped beyond hope that it was going to be the chamber maid coming in to
clean the room. With her eyes now open, however, she saw the older man,
the torturer, enter the room.
“Well, well,” he said, “I see that the drug has worn off and you can move
again. Is the itching powder still active or would you like me to apply some
more?”
“No, no,” she screamed into the gag, whose hard rubber bit was probably
already imprinted with the marks of her teeth.
“You know what I have always wanted to try,” he asked, answering his own
question, as he played with the knot tying her shirt together below her
breasts, “was to strip a young woman naked, strap her down helplessly,
apply plenty of itching powder, and then let a few thousand mosquitos loose
in the room. What do you think of that idea?”
“Aaaah, nooooo,” she screamed into the gag.
“You’re probably right,” he conceded, “the hotel management might not
like us bringing so many mosquitos into their establishment. I’ll just make a
note to try that another time.”
